


What doesn't kill you

by Florchis



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: (Coulson is the one who is dead btw), -ish?, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Noir, Background Platonic Philinda, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Intimacy, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 16:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18854740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florchis/pseuds/Florchis
Summary: May is having a rough time after Coulson's death. She didn't think Daisy's presence would help, but it does. [AU]





	What doesn't kill you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [26stars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/26stars/gifts).



> I had a "Setting: Noir" square in my MCU Kink Bingo Card, and @loved-the-stars-too-fondly promtped me Maydaisy for it. This is not much noir- or at all-, but since Kink Bingo ended, I can do what I want. I hope you enjoy it, ill timing about Coulson's death included.

Melinda pours herself two fingers of Haig, and watches the amber liquid sitting untouched in her glass for a long string of seconds. She stretches out the hand to take the glass, gulp down the alcohol, hope for oblivion. The sequence of actions is linear, but the movement dies out before it has fully formed, and her hand slides down the edge of her desk like spilled liquid. 

She watches the glass and she waits. For what- for death to come and get her, for Phil to defy the impossible, for the anger stage of grief to kick in-, she is not exactly sure, but she waits.

She waits and ignores the knocking at her door.

She didn’t bother putting up an  _ out of business  _ sign under the  _ Coulson&May, Private Investigators. _ one, because that is something that Phil would have cared about, and Phil is not here to care about it. Melinda cannot bear the idea of having to do something that he should have done himself. Not yet.

The door opens, and she fights the instinct to hide her head in between her arms. She is certain she locked the door, which means that it can only be one person, and she doesn’t want Daisy to call her out on her child-like behavior.

“How many have you had already?”

She has not moved her eyes from the glass, but from the creaks on the wooden floor, and the general direction of her voice, May knows Daisy must have sit on the windowsill. She can not remember the last time she cleaned it, and she hopes that Daisy is not wearing those grey pants that make her ass look just like candy. The banal- almost libidinous- thought in the middle of her cutting despair feels like a pang inside her chest.

“None.”

Daisy snorts.

“Come on, May. You can come clean with me. I won’t judge you.”

May tilts the almost-full bottle on her general direction, and Daisy gives her a low whistle. It is jarring to hear that sound now when she is used to it being teasing and warm and so damn flirty that she almost feels embarrassed just thinking about it. It throws her off center, but she can’t say that it is an unwelcome sensation.    

“Damn. That bad?”

She shrugs and doesn’t give an answer- she doesn’t believe one is needed- but turns around when she smells smoke. It is not quite usual for Daisy to smoke, despite what she likes to pretend. Her trembling fingers are also betraying her now; she must be more affected by Coulson’s death than she is willing to show. 

Daisy is not looking at her in a deliberate way, her foot tapping against the wood, her hand not holding the cigarette playing idly with the buttons of her blouse. Goodness gracious, she is not wearing the grey pants but instead a short, tight, black skirt, and the contrast of her golden legs against the eggshell blue of the walls- Phil’s choice, of course- is the most appetizing thing May has seen in days.       

Daisy’s legs have always been nice, and Melinda has never been shy about showing her appreciation for them, but she has never been exactly a horndog either. An enthusiast of sex? Sure. But at the appropriate times and places, always, and this is not an appropriate time to be lusting after her girlfriend, for fuck’s sake.

Daisy hops down and takes a step closer, a knowing half-smile on her lips, and offers her the cigarette holder. Melinda doesn’t smoke, but she is already choking, grief and yearning filling her lungs, leaving no place for smoke. She takes a long drag anyway. It tastes like Daisy, like long stakeouts and sleepless nights doing research. Like the way she tilts her chin before a kiss. Like the drop of sweat that runs, sometimes, from her shoulder blade to her hip, and that Melinda likes to chase with her tongue. It pushes the ashen taste of Phil’s laugh from her mouth, and she couldn’t be more grateful. Daisy sits on her lap and they smoke it back and forth all the way to the end.    

Daisy’s unanswered question is still floating on the air- _ That bad? _ \- and May wants to say  _ Yes, yes, _ because it is, but also wants to say _ No, _ because Daisy is here now, straddling her legs, her smooth skin sliding against the rough material of Melinda’s pants, and she being here doesn’t make Phil less dead, but it does make May more alive.

Daisy kisses behind her ear, and May wants a dark auburn trail down her throat, her sternum, between her breasts, down to her bellybutton. She is torn in half, half of her torn by the grief for her partner slash best friend, half of her torn by the love and desire for this breathtaking woman, and nothing better than Daisy’s lips to delimit and defend the part that belongs to her.                 

“Is this okay?” Daisy whispers, her nose tickling the sensitive skin under May’s jaw, and for all response May tightens her grip on her hips, holding her closer. Daisy seems to get the message because she starts nibbling gently on her throat all the way down to her collarbone.

She didn’t think sex was going to help; she didn’t think there was anything that would help besides time and just fucking enduring it, and yet. It makes sense, in some ways: libido kicking in to make up for the closeness and intimacy that are lost, her body begging her for a dopamine fix. 

She moves Daisy’s jaw up to look into her eyes- she too is carrying sadness, but also love, so much love- and she deserves much better than acting as pain relief. She pushes Daisy’s hair back, and her girlfriend exposes the column of her neck as a gift; May smiles, but relents and places a kiss under each of her collarbones. Daisy’s skin is soft under her lips and smells of soap and smoke. 

“May.” Her voice is certain, firm. May looks up. “What do you want?”

The question is simple, and so is the answer:  _ you. _ It is simplistic of her to think that her desire for Daisy might be driven by grief only: she has been wanting her for a long time now, wants her in a myriad of ways, the evidence seems to indicate she will want her for a longer time. But now, after a sour reminder that life is fragile, that there are reasons  _ carpe diem  _ is a thing? How can she not want Daisy even more, to treasure and to hold, for better and for worse? 

That is an illuminating thought.        

She deserves better than a ring-less, spur-of-the-moment proposal that will taste tart with grief in both of their mouths, this Daisy of hers. She deserves better, but instead of withdrawing and denying both of them, May will make sure to  _ give  _ her better. 

Until then, they still will have each other. 

So, instead, she says, “Kiss me, Daisy.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of LLF Comment Project, whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites:
> 
>   * Short comments
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